


to and from pt. 2

by xxcaribbean



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-06 12:33:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 17,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14057103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxcaribbean/pseuds/xxcaribbean
Summary: a collection of random drabbles featuring steve, billy, or both.





	1. coming out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on this prompt: I’m lowkey obsessed with the idea of one of the kids admitting to Steve they’re scared they’re gay and they’re really frightened about it and scared he’s gonna hate them and everyone will too and they haven’t told anyone else and Steve has never told anyone he likes boys before and he’s kinda like “me too” and they’re just like “what?” And he’s like “I think I like boys so I get it okay?” And it’s makes which ever kid lol feel so much better because Steve is so cool and he gets it

The porch is not the most ideal place for life contemplation, Steve thinks, no matter how comfortable it feels out here, staring off into the distance filled with trees, dead leaves, and the quiet hum of the wind rustling the branches above.

It is, however, where he finds Will, the shy kid taking a breather from the commotion inside. Steve has never understood what it’s like to be smothered by family, thinks he ought to enjoy such a thing after baring witness to absentee parents for a good few years of his life. He also knows that because he’s not used to it, it’s exhausting as much as it is overwhelming, and it must be the case for Byers enough to wander outside by himself.

“You okay?” Steve asks because he’s not as familiar with him as he is with the other kids, regardless of his acquaintance with Jonathan. He doesn’t expect a reply, actually figures he’ll be ignored because what does Will Byers and Steve Harrington have in common aside from the Upside Down? Aside from Nancy and Dustin who’ve all merged together in a group of understanding despite the oddities that otherwise would’ve kept them apart as individual people, no paths to be crossed and definitely no reason for interactions.

But Will shrugs his shoulders, leans his head against one of the wooden poles that lines the stairs to the cabin. “I’m okay.”

It’s a lie. Steve knows a lie when he hears one; he’s given his fair share of them when he doesn’t want people to bother him, or more importantly, when he doesn’t know how to tell the truth.

Steve’s met with a crossroads then, choosing to ignore it in favor of respecting Will’s answer or finding another line of conversation that will attempt to crack Will open – if not to admit what’s on his mind, then at least a decent chat to distract him. Steve used to be a bit of an ass, but he’s working on it. Will doesn’t have to tell him anything if he doesn’t want to.

“I don’t think I am,” he says, blurts it out without a moment’s hesitation. It feels good to say that, to not have to smile at Nancy or Hopper or Joyce or even Billy for that matter, to have to pretend that splinters of exhaustion and emotion aren’t increasing the longer he stands on his feet. Steve wants rest; he wants the Upside Down to not be a thing that he – or anyone else – has to deal with, but along the way, he’s learned far too much about everything for his brain to catch a proper break.

Will startles at his comment, glances up as Steve walks forward, sits down on the steps of the porch. He leans on the opposite side of the rails, parallel to Will. Steve doesn’t want to crowd his space, doesn’t want Will to feel like Steve’s a looming presence after all he’s been through because no matter what he’s seen – what any of them have seen – it will never be anything as horrific as the experiences that this kid has gone through.

No amount of dreams, sweaty palms, or edginess will compare, and often, Steve feels guilty that he has after effects of the most mundane bullshit he’s experienced. It shouldn’t be a comparison game, but guilt is a very strong five letter word. “All this shit makes you think,” though he keeps his eyes trained ahead, on the moss and rocks across the ground that he hadn’t noticed before, “about who you are, what’s most important.”

“Everything feels different,” Will finally chimes in. His chin is pressed to his knees, hugging himself tightly like that might make all the bad thoughts go away. It won’t; it never does because Steve’s been there – been in bed and felt restless, felt like maybe if he held himself tight enough, long enough that he’d it’d make up for the lack of warmth he often experiences.

“It does.” Steve’s voice cracks, throws his gaze to his feet and picks at the hole in his jeans. They’re stretched across his knee, an old pair worn thin from multiple washes. It’s not fascinating, but he hates how the strings that weave the material together feel like an omen or, at least, a metaphor for all the connections his life has careened together. “Don’t even feel like myself sometimes.”

There’s a hitch in Will’s breath, so sudden that Steve turns to make sure he’s okay. The kid’s eyes are wide, maybe even a little creepy as he blinks at Steve. Though, the more Steve notices, the easier it is to pinpoint that Byers isn’t  _looking_  at Steve so much as he’s looking off in the distance of a memory, of a moment that Steve wasn’t a part of. “I think I’ve always felt that way.”

Steve doesn’t want to dampen the mood more than he must, but he’d like to counter Will’s statement with  _either you know or you don’t_. There’s a certainty in life that he’s traveled through, solid in demeanor and tone. It’s not until you go through something, he thinks, that the limits of who you are are tested. 

Unfortunately, Steve thinks he understands the hesitation radiating from Will, that he’d experienced much earlier than someone like Steve who’d had the backings of moderate stability and general popularity to keep him from questioning – or really, to keep others from questioning – the position he’d definitely been  _given_.

Will on the other hand, from the murmurings and chatter from Dustin when Steve drives him to and from the arcade, paint a different story, that some kids aren’t so lucky. In all fairness, Steve wouldn’t’ve even had to look at Will to know the truth because Jonathan was a prime example Steve only paid attention to when others found it necessary to reduce him to mud on the bottom of their shoes.

Steve, before the ordeal with Nancy, had no qualms, no reason to bat an eye to any of the so-called grievances that might’ve been bestowed upon him least he were anyone else. It’s no wonder his existential crisis has taken this long to manifest.

Steve doesn’t really know how to reply to that. Another agreement would fail them both, sat in silence until one of them found the courage to gather themselves for the group inside.

Though, the longer they sit here together, it feels a lot easier not to do that, to let them be, let Will be, let himself just  _be_. A speck in the woods, observing rocks and mud and the blue sky only seen from the parting of branches from the limbs of trees, feels significant somehow, special and quiet. Steve hasn’t had that in a long time.

So when Will shifts his body, Steve isn’t expecting it, isn’t expecting a thrown rock to go flying forward or the tapping of shoes against the wood staircase. And most prominently, Steve doesn’t expect Will to whisper into the woods like he hadn’t spoken at all.

“I think I like boys.”

Steve’s heart flips, stops, then goes again, crazy feral at the hands of such a confession. It hits him like brinks, wonders if maybe he’d said it instead, voice weak from the screams and grunts he’d used to keep himself awake and alive.

“I hate how everyone thought it before I did,” Will says in that same small voice, a little bitter, definitely field with sadness. “They didn’t even let me-” His breath hitches, and he stops, Steve finally turning, finally moving until he’s slide closer to Will.

That’s the part of the story Steve cannot relate to no matter how much he wishes he could. Steve had a reputation, had it easy under the prospects of linear succession of high school fame. As mediocre as it felt all around, it allowed him the easiest navigation in life – now, not so much, but he’s almost out, almost away, and it’s a part of life he won’t have to experience ever again.

Will on the other hand- “Me too,” Steve says, runs his tongue across his teeth as if acid found its way into his mouth. He’d been contemplating it, would up at the notion that maybe everything he thought he knew was different. It started with Nancy, graduated into the Upside Down and the existence of monsters, and now Steve’s stuck at level three of a video game he hadn’t planned on playing – didn’t even know existed, to be quiet frank – and now that he’s there, he can’t quite reach the end of the maze.

“ _What_?”

Once again, Will looks like a wide-eyed teddy bear, confused and in disbelief. Steve watches the emotions cross his face, one of disbelief and anger that comes next. “Are you messing with-”

“Hey,” Steve says quickly, shakes his head because he might’ve been a dick – might still be if the right person asked – but he knows better than this. Knows better than this  _now_. “I think I like boys, so I get it, okay?”

Will’s skeptical eyes goad Steve into backtracking, into calling his bluff, demanding that the joke be over. But Steve is just as relentless, just as frustrated with himself and the situation that’s born out of realizing that girls are not his only forte.

“You’re serious.”

His teeth dig into his lip, and Steve wishes for a moment of reprieve because he hadn’t exactly come out here to make conversation about  _his_  issues and the bullshit he was dealing with. Hell, he hadn’t exactly come out here to comfort a young boy either; he’d just happened upon Will who also felt like a breath of fresh air would do him some good. But despite unknowingly walking into a bigger issue than he’d intended, Steve feels like maybe he’s all the better for it.

“They’ll hate me,” Will says, finally understanding that Steve’s serious. His shoulders drop, fingers curling around the railing.

“Then I guess they’ll hate me, too.” Steve thinks of Dustin, of what that might mean, thinks of Nancy and Jonathan, of Billy and Hopper and Joyce. Steve thinks of them first before his parents because it’s not like they  _wouldn’t_  care, but he suspects they’d be too busy to notice whatever is going on with their son. If they don’t recognize the distress he’s in from nightmares or anxiety attacks, it’s safe to assume they’d not pick up on much else.

And even then, Byers might be younger than him, and he might be like Dustin – a young kid he could call his brother – but at least Steve can save him from ridicule, can be an anchor until he’s ready to make whatever decisions he needs to. If that means talking about it- if it means existing until he’s out of this hellish town, then Steve guesses he’s got a purpose after all.

It ends with Will launching himself at Steve, a quick hug that Steve only has half a second to reciprocate because as soon as his arms are full of Byers, the kid is gone. He’s pulling himself to his feet, smiling down at Steve with big, watery eyes. “I’ll be here,” he says because he guesses that Will doesn’t want to stick around until his tears fall, the only cure to find the others so he’s not wasting away outside on a porch talking to Steve Harrington while he cries over something that is not yet set in stone.

Will smiles, shoulders relaxing as he takes a few steps up the stairs. “Thank you,” he says, and then he’s gone, Steve immediately recognizing the shakiness in his voice.

He’d like to comment, like to admit that avoiding the emotions attached to something like this is probably not the healthiest of things to do, but if he’d look in a mirror, he could say the same for himself.

Steve sits out on the porch long enough for it to grow colder, long enough for Billy to come outside for a smoke, sharing it with Steve like he’s a natural. Steve doesn’t say anything, just passes the stick back and forth until he’s smiling, until nothing makes sense, until he realizes that sharing his space with Billy isn’t so bad.

It might even be worth the risk.


	2. meet-cute

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on my tags for this wallpaper: billy's got a terrifying looking dog and steve does his best to avoid apartment 201B because everyone told him while he moved in to avoid it. and like steve listens. he doesn't know why but he does until there's an evening when the dog gets out and tackles him just licks his face and steve was just trying to get inside his place to put his groceries up and billy comes up apologetic and shoos the dog away with piercing blue eyes and curly blond hair. steve just thinks 'oh' this is not what the neighbors told him; this is not what he expected??? that's how steve gets to know a moody billy hargrove who cares too much n probably works at the local animal shelter bc he can't help himself. steve vows to see billy hold a kitten one day.

Steve’s learned punctuality straight from his father, that a man on time is a man to be trusted. While he’s had qualms with that particular phrase in the past, it sticks to the back of Steve’s mind like gum under a desk – useless, a little gross, and painstakingly obvious.

Though there’s two parts to time Steve can’t quite escape. As mastered as being on time has entrusted his dependability, he’s never figured out how to avoid  _wrong place, wrong time_  situations.

Steve’s timing in that regard has always been an empty shell, left filled with echoed footsteps of his demise. He’s found himself in many a situation he shouldn’t be in, doesn’t want to be in, and another moment of ill chance shouldn’t surprise him.

Then again, he hadn’t expected  _this_.

Additionally, Steve’s prided himself on taking advice from others, weighed the options, choosing what parts he should adhere to. Yes, he thought it quite strange that many of his new neighbors told him to avoid apartment 201B, glancing down the hall, glancing at the numbers on the mailbox that sits in the foyer as if it might sprout a head and eat them whole.

Thing is, none of them said  _why_ , gave no indication other than the fact that  _that boy in there…_  and then they’d go quiet, shake their head while leaving Steve confused, built in questions leading into the precipice of the stairs where his apartment door sits, where 201B resides.

So really, out of propriety he left it alone, heeded the advice full stop just this once because he’s never seen anyone come or go from the apartment.

Often, he thinks its empty, that everyone’s forgotten that the tenant inside left ages ago because Steve never hears anything. Which leaves him up for chow as all eyes are on him, resting inside of the insidious tone the carries over when gossip runs rampant.

Steve smiles, and he’s polite. He goes to work, and he comes back, and as time shifts, his stay grows welcomed, and he’s forgotten about the door, about the warning, about anything other than sweet old women and the college students he passes in the hall who don’t give him the time of day.

He forgets, but his timeliness doesn’t. Steve forgets, and his father’s words stick, but he doesn’t think it applies to this situation.

So, when Steve attempts to wrangle his keys from his pocket to insert them into the lock, grimacing at the heavy weight of the shopping bag in his arms, the last thing he expects is to end up on the floor of the hallway in front of his apartment, breathless and confused from no longer being upright.

Steve hits the floor with a  _thud_  after a solid weight knocks him down, the contents of his grocery bag spilling across the thin carpet; the brown paper sack he’d used rips right down the middle. The weight of something moving stays on top of Steve no matter how much he squirms, and when he finally blinks away the stars in his eyes, he comes face to face with a dog.

A large dog.

A very large doberman with teeth and beady brown eyes.

Steve shrinks back despite being on the floor, shuffles his feet across the carpet for leverage. It’s difficult to move from being pinned down, and then suddenly the dog, black and brown and so  _very_  intimidating, is licking Steve’s face instead of eating it.

“Oh god,” he gripes, feels saliva drying against his cheek. Steve holds up his hands as a deterrent but not even that tames the obnoxious enthusiasm the dog bestows. “Okay,  _okay_.”

Steve resolves to being pinned under the animal until he grows bored, thinks maybe a new face won’t be so interesting when Steve isn’t doing anything to reciprocate the affection this dog clearly thinks he deserves. He also contemplates  _whose_  dog this is as Steve knows his neighbors, knows the other tenants that dwell in the building, and not once has Steve seen a dog - a fucking  _doberman_  - this large around the building.

“ _Archie_.”

The dog perks at the voice, turning its head away from Steve, the reprieve welcome and long enough for Steve to slide away from the pet. His back hits the wall, keeps his eyes trained on the animal in case it might attempt a round two, and ignores the distant footfalls that grow louder, closer.

“Are you okay?”

Steve blinks, eyes swinging away from the dog and up, up  _up_  until he’s met with bright blue eyes and golden curls. “Uh.”

“Didn’t knock your head too hard, did he?”

There aren’t any words left in his throat, in Steve’s brain, and like a slow motion movie, the man above him gradually sinks down until he’s crouched in front of him. “Archie gets a little enthusiastic around new people.”

As soon as he does it, Steve mentally berates himself from nodding dumbly, mouth parted slightly.

“You sure you’re okay?”

Steve scrunches his brow like he’s finally registering the questions he’s been asked, heat creeping up his cheeks as he flushes from idiocy. The dog had occupied him long enough for him not to notice that it had an owner, a very  _pretty_  one, Steve thinks, as soon as his mind snaps back from the fuss.

He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to alleviate the silence that follows his reply, so he shrugs and attempts to stand up. Steve doesn’t wobble, nor does he catch himself agains the wall, but it doesn’t stop the stranger in front of him from reaching out to grab his elbow, gently helps Steve onto his feet, help he definitely doesn’t need but can’t be bothered to reject.

Steve doesn’t want to admit that his elbow, just like his face, is warm, sending a shiver down his spine and is only interrupted when the man lets him go in favor of hastily picking up Steve’s belongings. There’s a few apples that’ve run away from him, rolled down the hall, and Steve stares dumbly  _again_  before he can say anything remotely promising.

Instead, he says, “At least the groceries are safe.”

He’s met with a snort as the stranger sets Steve’s purchases in front of his front door. The paper bag lies on the carpet pathetically, not even enough to convert it into a makeshift brown basket that would, at the very least, hold all the fruits and vegetables Steve bought. So much for being an adult. So much for being healthy.

“And if they’re not, I’ll pay for them. I’m still really sorry.” The man glances behind him where Archie - the black and brown dog Steve now knows the name of - sits patiently waiting for his owner. Steve doesn’t think anything of it until his eyes pass over the front of the door.

_201B_

“ _Oh_.”

It catches the stranger’s attention, brow arched and confused. Those blue eyes bore into Steve’s, puts him on the spot in a way he doesn’t like - or at least in a way he  _thinks_  he doesn’t like. They’re so tepid, bowls of ocean waves that remind Steve of the sun, of the water. “You live here?”

“Yes,” is the answer given, and then a nod down the hall, a glance at Archie who’s ears perk up. “M’name’s Billy.”

He doesn’t offer his hand, and that makes Steve sad, feels like maybe he lost the chance when his brain stalled because he’d been too busy  _looking_  instead talking. “Steve,” he gives in reply. “I didn’t think anyone lived there.”

Dipping his head to the side, a little movement that spurs the look of gears turning, Billy goes from thoughtful to mildly surprised to annoyed. “Right. I’ve lived her for four years.”

“Oh.”

“Are they telling you I died?”

“I-” Steve shuts his mouth, shakes his head until a strand of hair falls in front of his face. “They act it, though. I’ve never seen anyone come or go.”

Billy’s shoulders fall in exasperation, looking up at the ceiling like it might sprout a storm cloud with thunder and rain and a lighting bolt that might just burn him into a pile of ash. Steve feels guilty then, not even his fault for the way the tenants talked about a seemingly vacant apartment. Though, he guesses he probably should’ve taken the hint if they weren’t in a rush to lease the place out, and really, it’s not any of Steve’s business.

Well, until-

“I threaten the landlord  _once_ , and clearly that means I don’t exist anymore, fuck.”

“You  _what_?” Steve doesn’t take a step back. He really doesn’t. He’s already leaning up against the wall, his groceries in a pile at this feet in front of his apartment, and Billy’s been nothing if not helpful. Really, it’s how bold Billy is, except Steve thinks  _like owner, like pet_.

Billy’s lips thin, eyes falling to the ground as he realizes he’s said too much. “I might’ve suggested Archie would get ‘em, but that’s only because the asshole wouldn’t fix the heater. Or the sink. or the leak in the ceiling, or-”

“Gotcha,” Steve says waving Billy off with a slowly forming smile. “Probably deserved that, then.”

“Maybe,” Billy says sheepishly, shoulder in a half-raise. It’s his turn to fidget, it seems, as Steve notices the way he taps his fingers against his upper thigh, other hand running through his curls. They get stuck on knots along the way, little tangles from a day worn thin, and as unruly as they get the more Billy tries to busy himself, the frizzier they grow.

Steve knows he should excuse himself, thinks he should be the one to call their bluff and go about his day, but somewhere deep down a part of Steve still feels guilty for being so rude, hadn’t exactly hated the dog either. He’d just been caught off guard, and first impressions are clearly not his forte.

So, Steve makes a brash decision in the span of zero seconds because clearly his brain is still foggy from the tumble, and he sure as shit  _isn’t_  finding Billy cute or anything.

Steve’s not usually a liar; he knows that much.

“Would you help me bring these inside?” He sorta kicks at his things, not touching them with his foot because of germs - though he internally sorts because they’re already on the floor.

“Sure,” Billy says softly, a pause blooming across his face. He doesn’t move first; he allows Steve to grab a couple of things, hands them off to the other man before grabbing what’s left.

“Archie can come.”

And at the sound of his name, the big ole dog comes running at a gallop until Billy hisses under his breath for him to slow down.

“He doesn’t bite,” Billy says quickly, almost like he thinks the dog might tackle Steve again. He doesn’t, but he does bump his nose against Steve’s thigh, tail wagging as Steve pats him on the head as best as he can with his arms full of slowly warming food.

“That’s very good to know.” He fumbles for his keys in his pocket, produces them, unlocks the door, and stumbles inside with two new guests Steve hadn’t planned on having. “He’s just happy to have a new friend.”

“Is that so?”

Steve motions to the countertop in the kitchen. Small as it is, they set everything down until Billy steps back and lets Steve start putting things away. “He’s probably tired of being with you all day. Needs a reprieve.”

He’s met with a frown, pink lips unhappy until Steve meets Billy’s gaze. As best as he can, Steve holds back his smile, an effort of joking quickly turning sour until Billy catches on, smiling brightly in return. “He’s a pound puppy. Probably misses the attention.”

Archie, who clearly knows he’s being talked about, barks. It makes Steve jump because it’s  _loud_ , but he huffs out a laugh anyway. “I think he agrees.”

The silence this time isn’t stiffening nor filled with tension, and that’s maybe to do with Billy’s dog and how he clambers over to Steve like they’ve known each other for longer than ten minutes. Steve, who’s never owned a pet in his life because it’d  _ruin_  his parent’s house, quite surprisingly finds the doberman to be the sweetest animal he’s ever met.

“He could come around,” Steve suggests, scratching behind Archie’s ear. He’s a little dopey from the affection, and Billy doesn’t hide his grin, the love that spills across the lines of his face too pure. “To visit. If you want.”

Billy finally tears his eyes away from the dog, glancing up at Steve through the thick of his lashes. Steve would be damned to admit that Billy is soft, too, different than Archie, of course, but gentle in demeanor despite the ruckus he could ensue. “I-” he pauses, throat working for a reply.

It makes Steve hesitate, makes him think maybe he overstepped by asking, that he should learn not to be too friendly with people he does not know. Even if Steve’s a decent judge of character - or so he’d like to believe, and also has nothing to do with the fact that Billy is beautiful - he’d really like to see him again no matter what anyone in the building thinks about 201B.

“Yeah,” Billy says on an exhale, maybe reads something on Steve’s face, the genuine kindness, the lack of reproach at Billy’s insinuation that he’s not always the kindhearted type. “We’d like that.”

Steve doesn’t miss the pronoun. Doesn’t miss the way Billy smiles or how the creases by his eyes deepen. Steve isn’t sure whether he appreciated falling in front of his door if only because he’s sure he’ll feel the ache of it tomorrow, but he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he could fall again, only this time, for someone much better.


	3. witching hour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> billy is a witch, basically.

As a child of the earth, Billy hears the the whispers when he least expects them, the exasperated trees in the forest, the hum underneath his feet. The wind curls around his ears and sings him songs about the birds, how seasons will be changing, and when the storms will roll in angry.

Mostly, he’s never minded. Never cared because it connected him to his abilities that singed his veins like molten lava. Billy could hear the earth awaken, could hear it sleep, and one day, he knew his bones and the rotting flesh of his body would join her.

But until then, she indulged him, gave him reminders of her powers, felt the moist air of her tears on a humid day, felt the heat of her blush during those long summer California nights. It provoked the changes in him, sent his head reeling with magic and butterflies that dusted his ribs with fluttery feelings of power.

Billy could do a lot of things, but then again he couldn’t. He could lick his wounds and cast light upon the smallest of organisms, breathing life into them like a twisted version of a god. His favorites were always the flowers, the bloom of energy stretching for their mother’s embrace.

He didn’t have that anymore, though, tried as he might, kicked the ground and heard the earth scream, asked her to take care of the ossein and the ashes that stood in the way of Billy and his mother’s happiness. At least she’d find it somewhere, for Billy might’ve been angry over what had been taken, but at least he knew that the green, the dirt, and the curl of a tree branch caressing his jaw, meant she would be in safe hands.

However, he was not.

His abilities blossomed like the flowers he once saved, but only in the privacy of his room. When Billy moved to Hawkins, he let himself go, tampered down the noises, refused to listen because he’d wished he could join his mother, too.

But the earth had her own plans, said  _not yet, my child_ , and Billy wondered what was left to lose, what other things were planned for him when his spark faded and the snap of his fingers no longer elicited the magic he’d been born with. He’d make his mother cry if she knew, though he supposed she already did. Dead in the ground, but a soul claimed by much more than the universe.

Billy didn’t much believe in ghost stories nor fairy tales, even when he saw prince charming. The earth might’ve whispered, told him  _he’s the one_ , but it dealt him shitty blows like the back of his father’s hand.

If anything, Max was safe. Billy’s magic could, at the very least, do one thing right.

But on a night when the earth screams, when he wakes up in bed drenched in sweat, when Max is shoving at his shoulder in the middle of the night, eyes frantic with fear and worry, Billy snaps to attention, gives a hard, good  _listen_  and realizes he’s missed the messages.

They find Steve and a gaggle of kids in the forest two miles out of town, armed with bats and bruises, mud and sweat. Billy doesn’t understand, the ringing in his ears a constant. It’s not until he feels the itch, the claws of  _something_  unholy mangling the beating heart of a reigning ecosystem, that he thinks that he gets it, the stench so unlike the earth he’d grown used to.

Billy sees the shape of a dog, sees the way it paces upon the forest floor. Billy tilts his head like the breeze is saying  _hello_ , produces a flicker with the snap of his fingers and figures it’s now or it’s never; there is no in between.

The earth cries, the leaves rustle, and Billy finally,  _finally_  knows what he’s supposed to do.


	4. corduroy

Billy’s voice is deep but soft in such a lulling way that Steve never argues with him when it’s time to put their daughter down for the night. The inflection of his tone gives away the love that cauterizes within the hue of his eyes, how he flicks his gaze from a cherub face to the pages of the book he chooses each evening.

Steve would grow bored of it, and surely his daughter might one day, too, but it’s a moment he forgives for the sake of standing in the doorway of the nursery they hand painted together, watching a gentle moment unfold. It’s one he can keep, that he gets to remember.

It’s the first book they bought for her, for their baby, and it’s the one Billy requested he read when the sun set and sleep called their name. Understanding wasn’t held with an iron-tight fist, curiosity touching Steve’s brow when Billy had slid the paperback copy within the already dense pile of books on the counter at the checkout.

“’ _He doesn’t look new_ ,’” Billy says, thumbing the page. There’s a lilt to his voice, the kind that knows what to expect and yet wishes it were different. “’ _He’s lost a button to one of his shoulder straps_.”

By the end of the night, Steve will have memorized the words all over again, and if he dreams of a fuzzy little critter, it’s far kinder than what he’s used to. Sometimes he drowns it out, often his lips move as Billy reads, and sometimes he falls in line with every other child at the discovery of a bear that only wants to be loved. To say it doesn’t snap his heart in two would be a lie, but like the adult he is, he knows the ending, the twist in his gut and the shudder in Billy’s breath long forgotten as the pages turn.

“’ _This must be home_ ,’” Billy whispers, the faintest of smiles curling his lip. “’ _I know I’ve always wanted a home_.’”

Their baby shifts in Billy’s arms then, palm of her hand stretching towards delicate paper. Her lids are half-closed, blinking languidly as if she has all the strength to fight off sleep. Billy lets her, though, continues the book until she’s out like a light.

Only then is the peace disturbed by awkward shuffling and Steve’s muffled laughter, Billy coaxing himself out of the rocker until he’s on two legs and a still-sleeping babe in his arms. He sets her in her crib with gentle care, tucks the blanket around her small body and presses his lips to her tender forehead like he might not have the chance again.

And then Steve smiles at him when he straightens, humble and kind, the pink of his cheeks a trace of his mirth, the subtle inclination that he’s happy.

“Every time,” Billy whispers when his bare feet stretch across the carpet, filling the distance between himself and Steve.

“You could have your laugh if you’d give me a moment.” The arch in his brow is only for teasing because if he really had a problem with Billy’s gift of soothing their daughter to sleep, he would’ve spoken up by now.

He shifts against the frame, lets Billy’s hand slide around his waist, hold him close in their home and in the rarity that is a quiet that features just the two of them. “Don’t be jealous,” Billy quips despite the fatigue that corners the edges of his eyes.

“Of a bear?” Steve eyes the book left on the chair behind them, creased and loved through its intention of its story being told twice fold. “I could never.”

Billy plays with the hair at the nape of Steve’s neck, the shorter pieces that don’t like to grow with the rest of it. They tend to curl, made different by length and the sweat of a long day. “You can read to her tomorrow.”

Steve purses his lip, considers the option until he remembers what he’s missing out on. He’s not jealous, far from it, knows what it means for Billy to be close, to love and fight tooth and nail for what he has. If it wasn’t for that, Steve can’t say they’d be here - together, yes, always that, but Billy’s determination has always won him a spot away from defeat.

“No,” Steve shakes his head, fingers sliding just underneath the hem of Billy’s t-shirt. His skin is warm - he’s always warm, he thinks, as if the shine of the sun burns right underneath his skin - and he’s such a comfort, Steve never grows old of that constant surprise, a renewal of wanton interest. “This is yours. I like hearing you read.”

Billy snorts. “Who knew it’d change from lit reviews to one-sentence wonders.”

That’s a fair point Steve can’t argue with, knows Billy’s partially the reason he even made it through those classes in college. And maybe that’s where it stems from - a continuation of a routine they’d once had, out of necessity then, and arguable, necessity now. “We could change them out,” he says, but the grimace gives himself away. Dense books will never be his forte.

“A bear is far more fascinating.”

“Is it?” Steve asks, bites his tongue over his inquisitive nature.

This time, it’s Billy that looks back at the book, eyes gliding across the room to the white chair they’d found in a second-hand store, that Billy said he could fix and paint. It’d be theirs, shiny and new in its own way, and Steve never doubted him for a minute.

“She didn’t  _just_  patch him up to make him better,” Billy eventually says out of the blue, after a tick of silence. He’s serious, Steve knows, can tell by the way his posture changes, fingers curling against the tail end of Steve’s spine. “She gave him something she owned, a part of herself, because she felt like he was worth it.”

To say it’s an answer he’d been expecting would be anything but the truth. Billy has a way about him that dramatically changes the mood of a room in the blink of an eye, a dangerous thing he’s learned to control in the wake of distance he’d put between the life he wouldn’t call home and the one he wouldn’t trade anything for. It doesn’t scare Steve anymore, not like it used to, but catches him on the precipice of Billy’s ever rolling emotions.

If there’s ever one thing that can be said about Billy, it’s that he more than wears is heart on his sleeve, most particularly around the people he cares about the most.

“She’s worth it, Harrington.”

Steve removes his fingers from Billy’s tummy, misses the warmth until he matches it against the line of a strong jaw. Nudging, he turns Billy’s gaze back to his, back to understanding where shame for being honest holds no grounds.

But it’s not the same, what Billy had said, not in the way that Steve sees it, not in the way Billy’s eyes flicker everywhere else but Steve’s. The funny thing about their years spent together is that Steve knows he means what he says, but it’s the truth spoken aloud to convince himself that what he feels is real that provides a line of baited breath.

Like diluted currency - his feelings in exchange for a slap on the wrist - Billy still expects rejection somewhere deep inside.

Steve may not understand it, could be due to the obscure connection he’d had with his own parents, but he sees a young boy with a mop of curly hair and book held tightly in his hand; he sees the gentle fingers only a mother could have and the inflection of her tone that gives away the love that cauterizes within the hue of her eyes.

With the twist of his wrist, Steve captures Billy’s hand in his own, smooths his fingers over the back, pressing deep into the worried flush of embarrassment. “You’re worth it, too.”

Luckily for him, the silence can’t, won’t drown out his affection, nor can it mask Steve’s resilience in burning the truth into the nooks and crannies of their home. Steve thinks that together, they’ve built something strong long after they’d settled the foundation.

Only back then, Steve didn’t have a button to sew or the skills to adequately navigate what would inevitable come to fruition.

“’ _You must be a friend_ ,” he says in the middle of the doorway, meeting glassy blue eyes so far gone from the days of destruction. “’ _I’ve always wanted a friend_.’”


	5. unexpected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a witchy!billy au.

Billy’s only gone for a couple of minutes, the thrum of the charm he’d left under the bed a steady pulse within his chest. He feels it rustle between his ribs, an extended part of his magic he’d given to someone else for the first time in, well, ever.

Except Max. Max has one, Billy reminds himself. But this? This is  _different_.

It burns so bright, a gradient of ember and green. Billy doesn’t need to see it to know how well-lit, how well-preserved it’ll stay where he left it, and for good reason. Hawkins is a dangerous place, as it turns out, and not because Billy had blown through town like hell was on his heels.

Sometimes the nights are too long, and Billy can’t always be around, but he can give  _him_  this. A safety net, a reminder that nothing will bite in the dark. Billy is a lot of things as much as he isn’t, but being a protector feels good; it finally feels like he’s done something right.

The soft chime of the clock in the foyer and the padding of socked feet hitting the stairs disrupts Billy’s scattered thoughts. He hasn’t said anything about the charm, hadn’t planned on making it known until he was surely ready to admit that underneath all the emotional turmoil, he actually feels things he never thought he would.

Billy waves his hand, catching the handle of the spatula before it clatters to the floor. Admittedly, he doesn’t want to be caught. He’s doing better, trying to be better about the use of his magic, and he doesn’t think that making eggs in the early morning counts as particularly useful.

“One of these days,” a voice slinks through the noisy sizzle of the pan, “you will actually sleep in with me.”

Billy smiles as he lifts the pan, turning it over, scraping the contents onto two plates. It’s the easiest thing to make in the house, quick and simple for someone like him who’d often have to make do. Old habits die hard, it seems, but Steve isn’t complaining when he grabs a fork and his plate and immediately digs in.

“You’re welcome.”

Around a mouthful, Steve grins sheepishly without apology, eyes bright as he shuffles over to the dinner table. He’d told Billy once that it often didn’t have any use, but he liked the idea of it when the kids were over, implementing a pattern for them they knew well enough. Nights when Steve ordered pizza or Chinese, when the house was filled with much more noise than he was used to.

For Billy, a table like that meant cowering behind his plate, but with Steve he understands its significance. He’s hardheaded about a lot of things, but this is one he’d easily fallen into.

It’s why he joins Steve at the table with no complaint, where Billy sits close enough to Steve that their thighs brush with familiarity that only comes from two people spending time together. It’s Steve and him in a big ol’ house on Saturday’s, shooting the shit and filling Steve’s bedroom with the smell of sex and sweat.

Billy takes a bite of his eggs in an attempt to ignore the ever-growing intrusion of anxiety, wishes he’d cooked them a few seconds longer. They’re not bad, but definitely not his best, and he thinks maybe crashing at Steve’s place hadn’t been the pleasant distraction he’d been hoping for.

“Are you even listening?”

It takes a kick to the foot for Billy to startle, brows drawn close. He’s been anxious about that stupid charm, and now Steve’s looking at him funny. “Yeah, I-” But Steve, Steve knows Billy. Knows him better than anyone in this town, and Billy would roll his eyes because he doesn’t  _do_  cliche, but Steve sees right through him no matter what.

Shoulders slumping, Billy shrugs. “Yeah, just- there’s been a lot on my mind.”

It’s a non-answer Billy hopes Steve doesn’t push, but he sees the wheels turning behind Steve’s eyes, the flicker of concern he’s never been good at masking. “This isn’t about-”

“No,” Billy shuts that down immediately and with a little too much force. He regrets it instantly, but he doesn’t apologize. His father makes him angry in many irrational ways, but luckily he’d left the house unscathed, could be here with Steve this weekend without the shadow of a monster home-grown. “It’s nothing important.”

“Okay.”

Because it’s that easy. Alway is, and Billy isn’t naive enough to believe it always will be, but he’ll take what he can get. More than thankful over the fact that Steve trusts him enough to open up when he’s ready.

This, though? Billy’s not sure he’s ready for. In fact, his thoughts sway again because it’s  _just_  a charm. Just a protective spell meant to keep Steve safe. 

There were no qualms making one for Max, not after all the failed attempts learning new moves on her skateboard. Billy grew tired of seeing all the bruises and gravel marks that’d split her skin open wide, scabs that cracked and healed only to be tore open again because Max is still so damn stubborn.

Steve, on the other hand, can handle himself, but it’d made Billy feel better. His magic came so naturally to him, it had no problem dancing in front of his face when he’d whispered Steve’s name in the darkness of his room two nights ago. Billy could’ve sworn it almost laughed at him for being so slow, so stu-

“-it’s a bit unusual. Mother’s never cared for flowers-”

“What?”

Steve sighs, shoving the last bite of eggs into his mouth. He makes the motion to drop the utensil, an exasperated annoyance flittering across the corner of his mouth, but Billy catches the fork with the flick of a finger, settling it back down onto the plate.

Steve only huffs.

“Please don’t be mad at me.”

Like Billy, Steve’s resolve is easily broken. He licks the front of his teeth, arches a brow, and gives Billy what’s supposed to be a glare but is only another twist of concern. It’s only fair. Billy’s frustrated with himself because  _it’s not a big deal_. None of it’s a big deal, but he thinks and he wonders if maybe he should’ve asked Steve first, if he’d wanted Billy’s magic, if he wanted his help.

Because that’s all he’s trying to do.

“What were you saying about the flowers?”

“There’s like, a dozen-” Steve begins, expression shifting. His nose scrunches as he gently shakes his head, tufts of brown hair falling to the wayside, curling and sticking and poking out from the nest its made from a good night’s sleep. “No,” he corrects himself with a lilt, like a question, “hundreds of them in the yard? It’s- well, it’s weird. It happens a lot.”

Billy’s eyes narrow at first, maybe from disbelief, maybe from the sudden shift in topic: from charms to flowers. And in a grand moment of pause, he says, “What?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” This time the irritation is real, and Billy’s tempted to press his thumb right between Steve’s brows, ease the muscles that give him an offended look, but he doesn’t. Billy’s too caught up in Steve’s story about flowers- and what the  _fuck_  is he even talking about?

“Everywhere?” Billy presses, lifts himself out of his seat.

“Hey,” Steve calls out behind him, the echo of his chair as it scrapes against the floor flooding his ears. “Where are you going?”

Billy doesn’t answer. He knows Steve will follow him, and he knows exactly where he’s going. The door leading to the backyard opens easily under his grip, the pool before him the first thing that catches his eye. It shimmers under the early morning light, but just a few yards away, right before the yard extends into giant trees and the extensive stretch of woodland, does not sit grass.

It’s there budding from the dirt, of course, but between each blade, a stem has sprouted. They’ve got little leaves on them and a flower in full bloom, and when Billy looks around, there’s not a space of well-manicured lawn left untouched.

Billy’s not even sure he wants to take a look at the front of the house. It’s got to be ten times worse than this. “Holy shit,” he whispers.

“It happens almost every time you sleep over.”

The tips of Steve’s fingers are cold as they slide over Billy’s waist. His chin fits right into the dip of Billy’s shoulder, front pressed to his back, and despite the sun casting its first rays of heat, the warmth of Steve’s body is much welcomed.

“It’s got something to do with you, doesn’t it?” Steve asks. His grip tightens around Billy for a split second, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of his neck.

Thing is, Billy’s never seen this before. He’s seen things  _like_  it when he’s alone, the only witness to his frustrations, but never anything of this magnitude. And moreover, he’d never been quite sure whether others would be able to see it either, that his magic that procured most of them, would allow it to happen. 

But, as it seems, there’s no other way to explain it. Billy knows what he’s staring at even if he doesn’t want to admit it because it means facing the truth he thought he could avoid.

By now, Steve has wandered over to the other side of the patio, far from the pool but along the meticulously placed step stones that sit in the grass. They act as a guide to the pool, as if guests couldn’t spot the swath of dug up land from several yards away. But that peculiar path is the one Steve lingers on, bending down to caress a flower with the brush of a finger.

They’re not harmful, and Billy only knows this because he can feel the life they breath, imagines the roots wiggling below in pleasure of being seen. Slowly, Billy follows in Steve’s footsteps, the ground below him gritty and rough beneath him. He stops just before the first step, just before he intertwines himself amongst the flowers, toes curling against the edge of the patio. 

“I made you a charm,” he says abruptly. The nerves he feels shoot across his limbs, feel like pinpricks against his skin. Billy doesn’t bleed, though, but he feels like his blood is draining with the rush in his ears and the steady pace of his heart picking up speed. “And every time I feel too deeply, it manifests.”

It sounds stupid. It sounds so damn stupid when he says it out loud, and he thinks, briefly, that when Steve looks up at him from his crouched position, that he’s going to laugh. He’ll laugh at Billy for being absurd, for thinking he’d cause hundreds of flowers to sprout out of nowhere in the middle of the night because he’d  _felt_  too much.

“Billy Hargrove,” Steve says, the corner of his left eye squinting from the light of the sun, “is this you trying to tell me you love me?”

Billy blinks back, clear surprise on his face.

Does he love Steve? Is that a thing he’s capable of, something he’s allowed? 

He’s avoided that question; he knows of his family’s curse, and yet he’s allowed himself this one simple pleasure because instead of laughing at Billy and the weird he brings with him, Steve smiles so softly, so kindly, and Billy doesn’t think he could ever give that up.

He’s not sure it can get any better than this.

It goes quiet around them except for the light breeze. The earth is quiet, too, probably reveling in Billy’s human fumblings, but he’s thankful for the peace. It gives him a moment to catch his breath, to extend his hand out to Steve, pull him forward into his embrace and kiss him as affectionally as he can muster.

There’s a lot about magic Billy doesn’t know yet, but he knows when he feels anger, pinpricks manifest across the seat of his car when he rolls angry down the backroads.

Billy’s also seen the ocean weep when he’s found an alcove close to the lake’s mouth, let tears loose under the guise of wistfulness of a small waterfall.

He’s also seen angry welts across his skin as punishment for his backlash turn into wind-whipped hair, thunder and lightening bracketing the sky under a downpour.

But this is different. This is the first of its kind, and Billy’s not well-versed in the naming of flowers, but he thinks they’re pretty for a reason.

A reason he hadn’t considered until now, presented before him in the most startling of ways. Billy’s always found ways to surprise himself, but he can always count on his magic to one-up him.

“I think-” he starts when he lets Steve’s mouth go, when he flicks his gaze upon red, swollen lips and sparkling brown eyes. “I think it might be  _a_  way.”

Later, Steve will tell him that they disappear after awhile. It’ll make sense because Billy’s never seen them before, not when he’s left Steve’s house in the middle of the day on a weekend he doesn’t like to let go of.

But now that he has, and now that he witnesses the blinding smile Steve gives him before pulling him back into the house, he wonders what had scared him, what had made him so damn nervous to begin with.

Billy hates big gestures, and he’d curse himself if he wasn’t already, but he likes this, likes the way Steve shrugs and says, “Yeah, I suppose it’s a good thing I love you, too.”


	6. kyrie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> billy prose.

Billy finds power in accumulating words. they give him a sense of strength even if his mouth is heavily walled off by bricks other people throw. He uses them sometimes, which often transposes into physical reminders of why he can’t always run the risk of acting smart, of acting like he knows better.

But Billy knows better. He knows better than a lot of people, if only they’d allow him the courtesy of listening.

It takes time, and so much damn effort, that Billy often wonders if it’s ever really worth it. But as time passes, and as their trust grows over the images he surely earned in their eyes, the group of misfits he helps look after, are a reminder and a blessing and a curse wrapped up into pockets of emotions Billy’s not felt in a long time.

Hasn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time.

It leads to banter, a wicked twist of smarts. It corkscrews into the highs and lows of young teenage angst and frivolous problems Billy wishes were his own.

And it leads to desire the moment Steve acknowledges how thankful he is that he doesn’t have to do it alone, that he doesn’t have to exist alone.

Billy finds words for each of these things, blankets them all in his head for safe keeping, for reminders when it’s hard to function and difficult to tiptoe around the cracks in the floorboards. He thinks, possibly, he’d study the dictionary if he ever put his mind to it but likes drawing upon the wild of the world to lend him his descriptions.

His upbringing has given him that chance even though he knows that the air around them isn’t storybook magic. He likens the world to literary compositions held bound by glue and paper. Fragile pieces of the story woven into his adventure. 

Billy thinks his story is mostly sour and not worth reading, but if he can fit what he knows, and he can reclaim what he lost through mere interactions from the people who’ve given him a home, he can make it worthwhile. He can make it worth something.

And it starts by them listening, and it begins when they request his presence.

The apex only happens when he forgets, when he stumbles, and it’s not often he does so. Billy’s always found power in words and thinks it’s silly that he doesn’t remember, doesn’t know the feeling crawling lopsided across his ribs until he’s with Steve, until he’s with the kids, when they’re in the car driving through town on the back of the wind, like something is after their tail.

It could be, he thinks, when Steve looks back at him as they fly down the gravel roads, when he impresses them all by slick turns and even sharper twists.

Billy thinks it’s stupid that a goddamn pop song is what spurs the learning curve. When Steve keeps staring and the kids keep yelling out of pure delight.

Billy finds power in accumulating words. They give him a sense of strength even if his mouth is heavily walled off by bricks other people throw. But sometimes, if he pushes hard enough, wills himself to step past his pride, he might actually realize he doesn’t know better.

Billy doesn’t always know better.

 _Kyrie eleison_ , he thinks,  _how much my life has changed._


	7. ice cream solace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more billy prose. i can't help myself, lol.

Billy’s the type to find solace at the food court, just hanging out at one of the tables after a bad run in with Neil. It’s one of the few places in town he goes to that’s free - to an extent - where he walks around, lets out some of the pent up energy that rattles his bones.

When Billy finds out that Steve works in the mall, it’s not like he intentionally tracks him down. Billy doesn’t have it in him most days to antagonize Steve anymore, especially not in front of an audience. But what Billy does do is slide into a seat at the front of the ice cream shop, when his shoulder’s fucked and the place is packed on a Saturday afternoon.

Billy people watches; he tries to predict what ice cream flavor they’ll go for, almost smiles when he spots a baby going after their mother’s cone, melted ice cream all over their face and hands.

He doesn’t mean to, but Billy watches Steve, too. There’s a polite smile on his face, even if he’s working with a difficult customer, and Steve’s wonderful with younger kids when they pick a flavor. “That’s a great choice!”

By no means would Billy say he’s a natural at it, but Steve has a softness about him that invites people in. He may look bored, tired, worn out from scooping ice cream for hours on end, but the motions calm Billy in the storm he’s living in.

Which is why he doesn’t expect it, the small bowl of ice cream placed right in front of him. He blinks, trails his eyes up the arm, greeting Steve who has nothing but a warm, soft smile on his face. “Ice cream doesn’t actually make things better,” he says, falling anxious the longer he stands in front of Billy. He looks stupid in the sailor getup, but Billy doesn’t say as much. “Maybe this’ll help, though.”

As Steve shrugs, Billy reaches for the pocket on his jacket, grabbing for his wallet. He’s not going to owe Harrington anything, and he’s sure as shit not going to have any favors lurking beneath the surface of whatever is transpiring between them.

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve says anyway. “I got it covered.”

This time, he smiles a little wider, the nerves resting heavy at the corner of his eyes. Billy glances down at the ice cream, then Steve, and he doesn’t know why he says it, nor does he know what any of this means, but Billy’s shoulder hurts, and Steve’s looking at him like he knows but isn’t going to pry, so he says, “Thank you,” in the hopes that maybe they’ll be even.

Or better yet, less enemies, not friends, but somewhere situated in between.

Billy doesn’t make it a habit after that. Of course he doesn’t, but if he finds himself wandering into the parlor on the days he’s feeling off, he thinks it isn’t so bad.

Steve’s presence isn’t so bad at all.


	8. sleepless

It’s known between the two of them that Billy sleeps like the dead. Years of leaky arguments traversing under the wood of the door kept him silent, kept him quiet, kept him from sleeping until he learned how to tune the noise out.

So this wasn’t done on purpose.

Billy rouses in the middle of the night, blinks blearily into the black room, moonlight cascading through the strips between the blinds. It douses the floor in shades of blue, and when Billy first hears the gentle gasp followed by the small sniffle, he keeps himself entirely still.

He can’t read the clock on the nightstand, and he’s afraid of moving when he feels Steve shift beside him, but Billy cracks an eye open anyway - all in the hope of finding answers to the sudden surge of questions that crowds his thoughts.

It’s not like Steve’s ever up this late despite the nightmares he suffers. He’s admitted, more than once, that having someone in the house has given him relief from the monsters that won’t leave his dreams alone.

But even then, he’s usually shaking Billy awake, burying his nose into the crook of his neck, wrapped up in the cocoon they’ve made of sheets and blankets til morning comes and all that’s left is their worry of slugging through another day.

Yet this is different. This is new for Billy, and he isn’t sure if he should nudge Steve, let him know he’s awake, fighting the pull of sleep that sits heavy behind his eyelids or if he should give in and pretend like he hadn’t heard anything at all.

The decision comes in the split second Steve moves, Billy quickly closing his eyes so Steve won’t catch him. There’s feather-light touches against his body, the inevitable contact of butterfly kisses when two people lay in bed. Though what Billy doesn’t expect is the gentle touch against the freshly swollen bruise on his ribs, the wistfulness of care when Steve’s fingers card through his hair.

Steve doesn’t say a single word, and Billy doesn’t know if Steve knows he’s awake, but what he’s realized is that he’s the reason Steve’s not asleep.

Billy is the reason Steve is crying, and when he thinks about it, he doesn’t remember the last time someone did that for him, doesn’t think he deserves that much sympathy.

With every rise and fall of his chest, Billy doesn’t have the heart to berate Steve, least of all in the vulnerability the late hours bring.

More importantly, Billy doesn’t think he can betray the small feeling of warmth in his chest from knowing that someone cares.


	9. college

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is an older drabble i forgot to add, so i'm doing it now. x.x

Steve’s never been a straight-A student, but he’s gotten by with his Bs and Cs. Thing is, college is different. It’s a fresh start; it’s a new beginning, and the fact that he’s a trust fund baby didn’t at all hinder his ability to get into college on his father’s dime. Thing is, Steve actually wants to try, never put much effort into schooling because grade school was childish, high school even more so. But Steve wants to find a place in the world, wants to think he can be something if he just puts his mind to it.

Which is why he does pretty good his first year. He passes most of his classes with Bs, and it’s full of late nights, too much studying, very little sleep. He puts off some of the difficult classes, the ones he knows he’ll struggle with the most, tries to pair them off with others he knows will be easy. Like stats. Steve likes numbers. He likes that it’s always the same. It makes sense. It’s definitely not difficult.

But that English Lit class he decided was a good idea to take? Not so much. Steve knows about stereotypes, isn’t much afraid of them now that he’s on a campus with thousands of other students. He blends in and people don’t  _think_ they know him anymore, except for the fact this class is as bullshit as ever, and well, he’s actually struggling.

Steve finds himself in a predicament, realizes that he remembers some kid in his apartment complex had rambled off about paying someone to do their paper, and needless to say, Steve is intrigued when he remembers, when he goes up and blatantly asks for help, feels like a shady business deal because as much as Steve wanted to eradicate his upbringing, shed his skin for a new one, deep down maybe he’s just the same small-town rich asshole who gets away with anything he wants, money no object, just with the snap of his fingers.

He tries not to feel guilty as he finds the dorms, finds music playing on the other side of the door, knocks and hears shuffling. Steve doesn’t expect to meet a stranger who looks like  _that_  to churn out decent assignments for a pretty penny. But Steve meets Billy Hargrove on a Tuesday evening, expects the sneer and the delight in ocean-blue eyes when he offers up half the cash, the other when the paper’s finished.

Steve stands the jokes Billy makes about him, about his sad life, about his daddy’s money, about rolling his way through college like water down a drain. Billy recognizes Steve for what he is, what he’d worked hard to rid in his time away from home. And technically, maybe they shouldn’t meet up for progress checks, and Steve shouldn’t follow Billy to the library while he’s looking for sources for Steve’s paper, but he trails behind him with his tail between his legs, maybe learns a thing or two about the authors he’s meant to be studying, about their writings that have impacted readers for decades.

Steve still maybe doesn’t get it, and maybe he never will. But one thing he doesn’t miss, is the calculated moves Billy makes, the side-eyes and shuffling feet, the nerves tick he has when his fingers aren’t wrapped around his necklace. Billy is far from a number’s game, but he’s the closest thing to a puzzle Steve  _wants_  to figure out because as much of a moron as he’d always been led to believe he was, he also knows that Billy’s never told him to fuck off.

Besides, Steve’s delight the first time he tells Billy to put his money where his mouth is seals the deal. Billy finishes Steve’s paper late one Friday night, but that’s only after he’s finished fucking Steve in his bed.


	10. entities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another short one i forgot to add, jeez, lol.

There are very few things in life that come easy to Billy Hargrove, but there are three prominent entities that hold him hostage: school, the Camaro, and sex.

A forth category couldn’t’ve been deigned even if he wanted because Billy found pride in rules, integrity in keeping them, and honesty in the accountability. Adding another would distort the status quo, an inconceivable thought to play with.

Then again, he hadn’t planned on moving from California, nor had Billy expected to be graced by Steve Harrington’s presence.

And luckily for him, Steve is  _easy_.

Easy after their fight. Easy in understanding. Easy in friendship.

He’s easy on the eyes, easy company, even easier to poke and prod and make fun of because Billy has learned to curve his words into playfulness instead of daggers. Steve simply let’s Billy be a version of himself that’d been difficult to access, painful and raw at the admission of the source of his torment.

But what Billy doesn’t know what to do with, how to handle, is Steve closing himself off, the inevitable twist of his body as he pulls away from him after they’ve come down off their high - as friends, as acquaintances, as  _no labels works just fine_.

Moments between the sheets. Sometimes the car. The outskirts of town in no man’s land for only the willing. His back on full display, Billy hesitant to do anything, to say anything that would crack what he knows are fragile moments between them.

Because what isn’t easy are the feelings. What isn’t easy is Billy’s fuck-off nature and far-off proximity to maintain what he knows best. He saddled himself with this predicament, led himself astray with a leash tied tight to the only hands who could ever reign him in.

So, there are still three prominent entities that hold Billy hostage, but somewhere along the way, Steve came along and made himself the most important.


	11. home

Somewhere in the distance, while Billy’s having a conversation with a friend from college in a bar, he hears the all familiar, “Billy, come get your brat.”

He sighs, shrugs an apology off the tip of his tongue and wanders around until he finds Steve telling off a very confused patron.

“You can’t go a minute without finding trouble, huh?”

Steve lights up when he sees Billy, but pouts in that oddly familiar way when he gets a little tipsy. “He ran into me on my way out,” he mumbles, pointing at the entrance of the bathroom.

There’s high doubt that that’s the truth, so Billy apologies to the guy, hopes there’s no hard feelings as he gathers Steve up in his arms like the rag doll he is. Alcohol makes him loose, moreso his mouth, and if Billy’d known, maybe he wouldn’t have suggested they meet in a bar of all places.

Then again, Steve’s lips attached to his neck are not a bad feeling. “Knock it off,” he says, batting away the lingering wetness. “You’re drunk, Princess. Gotta get you home.”

“Just a little,” Steve replies, lifting his hand, pinching together his thumb and forefinger. They always touch no matter how much Billy sees the scrunch of his brow, the concentration of willpower for a minuscule reference of measurement.

“Just a little,” Billy repeats, crook of his mouth curling. He takes Steve’s hand, sends a goodbye wave to his friend and then slowly shuffles them out of the bar.

“It’s cold, Billy,” Steve says just a few steps behind him, squeezing their palms together. The pressure alone makes Billy stop. They’re only a few feet from the Camaro, but he shrugs off his leather anyway, places it around Steve’s shoulder.

“You’re the neediest asshole I’ve ever met,” he murmurs into the night air. Steve settles under the jacket like a happy little duck, which leaves Billy fully aware of the autumn air.

Only then does Steve smile gently, shuffling against the gravel on wobbly legs, brings himself into Billy’s space like they share it, like they own it together.

“I love you.” Steve’s head drops into Billy’s chest with a hum, pleased and pliant from the warmth of his blood singing within his veins.

It’s hard to be mad at Steve when he’s like this. When he’s softer than Billy’s ever known. A weakness, certainly, in Billy’s eyes, but he’s also learned that vulnerability isn’t a bad thing.

Especially if it’s with someone you love, too.

Billy wraps his arms around Steve, holds him tight until the chill nipping at his exposed skin reaches his bones. “Let’s go, baby.”

“Home?”

Something sickeningly sweet melts inside of him, gooey like syrup. Steve’s sweet in that way, with that soft, sleepy voice, with that promise they’ll be together.

“Yeah, Princess. We’re going home.”


	12. free pass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> billy thinks it'd be cool to ask steve about the famous people he'd like to fuck. maybe he shouldn't have.

in an effort to be an ever bigger dick, billy throws out a name or two, so steve only follows. but billy’s the kind of petulant, jealous type, realizing his mistake way too late. “shut the fuck up, steve. you aren’t fucking them.”

“okay, but you said i could. that’s why it’s a  _pass_.”

“i don’t like your picks. try again.”

and billy just. he’s pouting. like, honest to god, he came up with the fucking game, but he’s  _not liking_  the way steve’s eyes narrow, rattling off a few other people just to see billy bristle. “you’re jealous.”

“no, i’m not.”

“you are. you can’t make me rescind my list. you  _asked_  me.”

“and i told you; they’re  _shitty_  picks, steve.”

steve snorts, crawling onto billy’s lap, playing with the hair around the nape of his neck. “what, you wouldn’t wanna see me get fucked by someone i could only dream of being with? your game’s stupid, you know.”

and like, steve grinds down on billy because why the fuck not. he kinda gets hot over billy’s jealousy. that’s probably not a good thing, but the way billy’s fingers curl into his hips, and that soft breath he releases when he fucks down shallowly over billy’s clothed dick, is such a turn on.

billy gets all sorts of whiny after that, lowkey begs steve to fuck him, put his mouth on him,  _something_ , and steve just clucks his tongue. “lemme hear you say it, billy,” he says because he knows how stubborn billy can be, just as he is jealous.

it takes a good minute, but billy eventually gives in because fuck, it’s steve. like, how the fuck is he supposed to resist him?? “you’re right, okay. m’fuckin’ jealous.”

steve just shoves billy back down onto the bed, straddles his hips, continues grinding. “thought so, babe,” he says, undoing billy’s jeans at an agonizingly slow rate. “though in any case, i’d only have you fuck me anyway.”


	13. highlightin'

steve is talked into getting highlights. he thinks it's dustin's fault, somehow, but he finds himself in a chair with liquid painted onto his scalp and two hours later, his hair looks different.

and like, it happens. it’s a thing, and he thinks it’s not half bad or whatever. it kind breaks up all that brown going on. “gives it more depth,” he’s told, and he kinda agrees, okay? he actually kinda likes it. 

it’s been a few days since he got it done. he and billy aren’t always attached at the hip, but it’s been awhile, and steve’s hair isn’t something he thinks about anymore. he’s gotten used to the change at this point, so when steve sees billy for the first time-–like, it’s a weekend date, ok, driving miles outta hawkins for dinner and a movie–-he doesn’t say anything.

in fact, it’s not even a thought on his mind that he’s changed something about himself. but billy? he notices immediately, pulls at a curling strand of hair tucked behind steve’s ear, “the fuck is this for?”

steve swats billy’s hand away.

“it’s not for you.”

“bullshit.”

“not bullshit. it just happened.”

billy eyes him because he knows steve’s lying through his teeth, tension setting in across his shoulders. “right,” billy says because he’s learned when to let things go, learned when it’s best to prod, and steve, for all the confidence he may have, still gets a little, well, sidetracked.

“i thought men weren’t supposed to notice this kinda shit anyway,” steve says absentmindedly. he thinks–well, he knows it’s a lie, to a degree. he remembers the things nancy changed about herself because she could, the physical things on top of the growth they all went through because of the upside down.

but billy? steve hates thinking it, but more often than not, he comes across as a stereotype.

though steve should know better. they’re sitting outside their favorite diner. sitting outside in billy’s camaro because it’s the only time they’ll have for physical contact. sitting outside with billy’s hand sliding up his thigh, thumb rubbing soft circles into his jeans, pressing into the flesh beneath because billy like  _likes_  him, and that’s as far from a stereotypical as either of them could get.

and it doesn’t stop there. not at all because steve feels the squeeze of his thigh, and billy replying without missing a beat, “i notice everything about you.”

heat rises in his cheeks, but steve snorts, and warmth spreads through his belly. “first off, creepy,” he says, but his voice cracks, and billy smirks. “secondly, that’s a lie because you purposefully ignore  _at least_  half of everything i say.”

“because your mouth-”

“no.”

like a shark, billy grins again, staring out across the parking lot before resting those baby blue eyes on steve. “you’ve got the most fuckable, kissable lips, baby,” he says, shifting in his seat, steve feeling that rush of indignation yet caught off guard by the want the slithers through his chest. “how could i resist?”

steve expects it. he expects it, and he welcomes it all the same when billy leans forward and kisses him. it’s a little rough, the kind steve melts under when he feels billy’s fingers curl around his jaw, teasing, testing his limits.

“you’re an asshole,” steve whispers when billy pulls away.

“and you love it.”

“you love me,” steve says in return, like it means something, like it means everything.

billy cocks his head, eyes narrowed like he’s missed something, but steve’s not hiding, and that’s the point. billy isn’t missing anything. “that i do,” he replies.

it’s good to hear–that it’s not a trick of the light or of billy’s tongue. moment’s like this are fleeting between them because their life revolves around the darkness of the shadows, but any moment steve has a chance to pull from the light, he’ll do it.

and also makes sure it’s not too serious either. “and my hair,” he says, eyes sparkling, pulling billy back in for a kiss.

but billy resists, just for a second, and smiles softly. “and whatever you choose to do.”


	14. looks

Eye contact is probably not a thing Billy is used to when it comes to sex, and it’s not that Steve’s disappointed about it, but it does mean he’s missing something. He’s used to Billy burying his head between his shoulder and neck, biting, pressing kisses to the juncture of bones. He’s also used to Billy kissing him deeply—the only thing close enough to what he wants.

Steve doesn’t know why he wants it, why he’d like to come so hard while Billy’s ocean blue eyes pin him down, watches the moment Steve falls over the edge due to Billy’s mischievous behavior.

So Steve forms a plan. It’s not solid, and it’s sorta on a whim, but Steve pulls Billy into the bathroom while the kids are preoccupied, shoves Billy’s hand to the front of his pants and mumbles into the skin, “I want you to get me off.”

Steve doesn’t see it, but he knows Billy’s eyebrows are up to hairline, confused and breathing a little rugged at the admission. “Is there a please somewhere around here?”

He groans, nips at Billy’s skin, shifts in his stance against his body—whose hand has not left his clothed dick. “Mmm,” Steve hums, shakes his head and lazily smiles. “No, because I know you’ll do it anyway.”

The moment he feels the squeeze, Steve goes soft, literally goes lax at the pressure Billy applies. He doesn’t give in, though. Wants that ache of a little pain, a little pleasure, and Billy knows just how to give it.

Before he knows it, Steve’s pants are unzipped, cock out and dripping precome right into the palm of Billy’s hand. And Steve sighs, sags enough against Billy that he’s maintaining his weight, if only a little. The movements against him start small, little flicks of the wrist, thumb pressing right into the slit of the tip. Steve’s knees go weak, vision a little hazy, and he thinks how stupid that this makes him feel so out of control.

It’s because of that that Steve doesn’t notice Billy slinking down, pulling away from him like he’s going to go down on his knees. While the wet of Billy’s mouth is good—it always is, and Steve’s always a little embarrassed at how quick he comes when Billy works his tongue around the head of his dick, fingers massaging his balls until he goes lower,  _lower_ —this isn’t what he’s here for. Steve grabs Billy by the shirt before he moves any further, grips the collar and slots their mouths together while Billy continues to work him, albeit lazy at this point.

Steve’s hips follow the motion, fucking into Billy’s hand, and when he pulls back, he’s breathing hard. “Like this,” he whispers, blinking heavily, focusing on the creased brow between Billy’s eyes. “Just like this.”

Billy obeys, which isn’t what happens all that often when he’s determined, but he’s glued to Steve, bodies pressed together, little room for much movement. Steve feels it all though—he sees it all, the way Billy’s eyes are relentlessly on him, the hitch in his breath when Steve lets out soft, pleased sounds. They don’t break eye contact, not yet, and Steve feels hot all over.

“I’m gonna come,” he whispers, so quiet and unlike the way he’s used to. Steve’s not necessarily loud, but he knows Billy makes it a mission to make him make noise, drawing out everything Steve’s more than ready to give.

“Then come.”

The command is so simple and not stern at all because Steve hears the tremble in Billy’s voice, sees blue eyes swimming with want and need, and if he weren’t so itchy with pleasure, Steve would make use of those emotions.

He twitches in Billy’s hand, the tell-tale signs he’s closer to the edge. Billy’s hand slows up, then slows down, the slick of precome facilitating the majority of noise besides their heavy breathing.

And then Billy grins, smiles like he’s caught onto something, pinching the head of Steve’s cock between his thumb and forefinger. “Come for me, pretty boy.”

Steve shudders, tension loosening as he spills into Billy’s hand. The high-pitched whine he releases should be embarrassing, but Steve’s eyes are wet with tears, fucking into Billy’s hand as he rides out his release. “Billy,” he chants, sagging against his boyfriend’s body, the first time they’ve broken eye contact in what feels like ages.

He can’t move—or he can, but his knees still feel wobbly, and pleasure trickles through his veins. It’s not until Billy laughs under his breath does he startle, Billy shuffling them over to the sink. He lifts Steve up, sets him on the counter before rinsing his hand and knabbing a stray washcloth to clean Steve up.

Once he’s tucked himself back into his jeans, does Billy settle between his legs. He caresses Steve’s jaw, rests his hand on Steve’s thigh and waits until his questioning gaze is answered.

“You look hot,” Steve says as if that was the sole reason for this adventure, but it’s clear Billy doesn’t buy it.

“I’m always hot.”

Steve snorts, not entirely sure he knows how to explain himself. The thought aloud sounds silly, and he’s always had a difficult time expressing just what he wants. Tampering it down’s been the best—the easiest—solution for him, but Steve thinks that maybe it isn’t the best when he’s faced with circumstances like this.

He licks his lips, eyes darting across the wallpaper behind Billy’s head. “I wanted you to look at me.”

He’s confused again—Billy’s confused, and Steve sounds stupid as he wrings his hands together, as Billy squeezes his thighs to grab his attention. “Steve-”

“You do, sometimes,” Steve admits with a shrug, like it’s no big deal, like he regrets the flow of words.

But Billy’s always been relentless. Steve knows this, and it’s why it doesn’t surprise him—doesn’t phase him—when Billy says, “From now on, then.”

It’s his version of a promise, leaning in for Steve’s mouth, for the taste of his tongue and the scent of shampoo and all things distinctly Steve.

“You want me to get you off?” Steve asks him when he pulls away, lips brushing over Billy’s cheek. The soft puffs of air from Billy’s mouth set goosebumps down his spine.

“Nah,” Billy says, running his fingers through Steve’s hair, thumb brushing against his bottom lip. “I’m gonna fuck you real good tonight, baby.”

Steve doesn’t mean to, but he blushes, only masked by the red of extersion after riding out his high. “We better get back,” he says instead, corners of his mouth quirking up.

Billy hums in agreement, helping Steve off the counter. He gets to the door first, knows Billy’s close behind him, but stops as soon as he feels Billy’s fingers brush his elbow.

“You’ll tell me next time?” More subdued than ever, Billy looks hesitant. Steve hates that look on him, hates himself even more for putting it there.

“Yes,” Steve says with certainty because he knows he should’ve said as much before. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, pretty boy. Let’s hope you don’t regret it.”

Billy shuffles around Steve, has the audacity to wink at him as he disappears down the stairs. He’s not offended, of course not. Steve’s buttons have to be pressed harder than that with as much energy Billy exudes.

That doesn’t mean his dick doesn’t know any better, though. Steve stalls, breathes, and thinks of everything that doesn’t have to do with Billy.

Which hardly helps. Steve knows—just as much as Billy—that he’s a fucking goner, and Billy will eye him all damn night.

Of course, he hadn’t accounted for his plan backtracking, but in all honesty, he definitely isn’t mad about it.


	15. trust

“you’re fraternizing with the enemy!” dustin says, heels lifting off the ground as if his voice has plucked him straight from the autumn leaves beneath his feet. “the  _enemy_ , steve. do you have any idea how stupid that is?”

he’s mad. more than a little. steve knows this and yet he sighs because dustin is a kid, and he’s in no place to be taking orders from someone half his size. “he’s fine,” he says, weakly. the energy he woke up with this morning has dwindled considerably, and not that he’s blaming dustin for his change in mood, but what he does note is that this topic of conversation should be  _off limits_.

“he’s fine,” dustin repeats, voice satirical, bubbling with betrayal. “when has he ever been fine, steve? when?”

in the beginning, steve knows the kid would’ve had a point. he also knows the delicacy of the situation he’s gotten himself into. the tug of war he has going on within his mind isn’t favorable, but steve also knows it’s his own doing. to choose between a bunch of kids he hadn’t meant to know and boy he thinks he might love with is an ultimatum so detrimental, he’s trying his best to mend what he can.

and unfortunately, it doesn’t look like it’s working.

“steve,” comes the low timber of another voice, right behind his back. it stays where it is, doesn’t float forward, and steve breathes a sigh of relief that for once, someone listens to him.

“it’s complicated, alright?”

“how?” dustin screeches again. “it’s like two plus two, steve. he beat your face in; you hate him, plain and simple!”

he’s tired. drained, actually, and the fact that they’re in the woods in the middle of the day causing a ruckus wasn’t exactly on steve’s agenda. but there’s a tree that stands tall, almost proud and smug for existing in the far corner of the space they’re occupying, and steve wanted  _him_  to know that their bullshit–their teasing, their grates, their  _tension_ –was minuscule in comparison to what the real world offered.

the apprehension balloons, though, unescapable in the wake that steve might have to choose. and isn’t that lovely? stuck in a sea of trees with two people he cares about, an onlooker prepared to snicker at whichever way this conversation leads because either path taken, steve will have lost.

“dustin,” he pleads. “i don’t expect you to understand, and that’s okay.”

the boy’s mouth snaps shut, offended but willing to listen.

“maybe i am stupid. i haven’t always been the brightest,” he says, voice thick and slow like molasses. “but someone has to care.” steve’s shoulders drop, the weight of his words distinctly cumbersome. he knows he shouldn’t say this, not out loud, not while they’re out in the open and so exposed. but, “someone has to.”

he doesn’t allude to what. that’s definitely not his place, and the confusion that dustin offers makes steve painfully aware that some secrets are best kept close.

but if he only knew, steve thinks, that maybe his flawed logic wouldn’t seem so fractured in the wake of dustin’s reasonings.

because really, he has all the excuses in the world to hate billy hargrove.

the wind rustling the leaves brings them all to a standstill, to silence, to a crossroads that steve doesn’t know how to get past. he stands in the middle of the woods–between a boy he loves and a gangly kid he’d learned to care about and wonders why his life ended so fucked up.

and yet that’s the thing. steve’s sure he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

“steve,” billy’s voice pulls him back, tunes his senses into the worried edge that lies between tongue and teeth. “we should go.”

billy’s right. even in the middle of the day, it doesn’t feel safe here, and steve thinks that maybe this void they’re standing in is feeding off their energy. he shivers despite the warmth of the sun, the wind picking up rustling leaves. he thinks they should all be dead already, especially the ones on the black bark he’d convinced billy to come see.

“c’mon, dustin,” he says, holding out his hand, a bridge that crosses waters, that puts them on the same side of the fight.

the boy hesitates, though. out alone in the middle of nowhere hawkins, and he hesitates because steve can’t choose sides.

“please,” he whispers, begs because losing one or both is not an option, and steve’s not walking away without either of the people he cares so much about.

steve steps forward, only once, but it’s enough for the ground to groan, to creak in such a way that dustin startles. he’s angry, confusion in his brow, but worried all the same.

he takes steve’s hand, a fact he’ll later swear they shouldn’t speak about again because dustin isn’t a kid–not entirely and not with all the worldly wisdom thrown into his lap in the past three years they’ve been dealing with unknown worlds.

but he squeezes steve’s hand like there’s trust in his eyes, and steve smiles back because they’re all broken people, and a little care is all of them need.

he feels billy approach, finally, cautiously, blinking at dustin with shame and maybe partial resentment. “we need to go,” he says again, like he’s experienced a burial the tree is about to offer, the sickening lurch of dense water bubbling up from the ground.

steve hears it in the distance, behind dustin just waiting to eat them whole, so he turns to billy and says, “lead the way,” and hopes that maybe their willingness to survive together will be a stepping stone rather than a temporary clause that drives a wedge between them all.


	16. pride

like, billy and steve are a thing. and everyone knows it except the people who don’t need to, but that doesn’t mean the brats like it. they put up with billy even though, “he glares at me, steve! looks  _can_  kill.”

“they don’t, dustin, but thank you for the warning.”

and it’s back and forth jabs sometimes, them all co-existing and trying to get along. it doesn’t always work because there’s a pack of kids and only one billy, and they don’t trust him so it’s whatever.

until.

until steve gets awful news. it’s really awful, and he lays in bed, and billy doesn’t really know how to fix it as he curls up around steve, presses kisses into his shoulders, across his temple, lets steve cry.

it’s not until steve’s asleep that billy slips out of bed, gets dressed, leaves steve a note on his nightstand that he’ll be back shortly  _just shower and get dressed, princess_.

billy’s not entirely romantic. like, he tries with the flowers and chocolates or taking steve out on dates when they have the time, when no one nosy is looking their way. because billy’s not really familiar with flattery or what’s right when it comes to  _love_. he knows how he feels about steve, but connecting his feelings and actions feels like something’s stuck in his throat, working a little too hard just to breath.

he blames that on neil. he doesn’t like to think about it.

but billy  _thinks_  because he’s good at that, at least. he drives to dustin’s house and knocks on the door. and he charms. mrs. henderson because she’s sweet, and dustin pushes past his mother and walks with billy to the end of the drive way because, “what the fuck are you doing here?”

“language,” billy grunts.

“shut the fuck up,” dustin snaps, crossing his arms over his chest.

“do you wanna know why i’m here or not, shitbird?”

dustin doesn’t growl, but like, his lip curls in a snarl, rolls his wrist for billy to continue.

and he goes off. he leans against his car, ankles crossed, trying his best not to act like he’s affected by the circumstances that swathed him and steve earlier that morning. but he is, and it seeps through his voice. so he says, “i need to pick up everyone. you coming?”

dustin thinks he understands. so he sighs, but it isn’t out of reluctance. he informs his mother he’s leaving, and he climbs into billy’s car. they go house to house, wild explanation’s galore until billy’s got a handful of brats in the backseat smushed together, chittering away like they don’t notice steve’s not there, that it’s billy in charge, and billy full of nerves, and billy asking them silently for a favor.

when they get to steve’s house, billy walks through the door, and steve’s in the kitchen, hair wet from the shower, eyes red-rimmed. but he spots the kids flowing into the room, crowding into his space, begging to be fed, and in that instant, steve’s distracted.

he’s distracted by their needs, and he turns on their favorite movie. and steve settles into the couch surrounded by a slew of gangly teens who fight over popcorn and frozen pizza. and when billy sits next to him, steve folds himself up on the couch, rests his head on billy’s shoulder like he knows what he did, what pride he’d given up to make this house feel like a home.

and that’s more than steve could’ve asked for.


	17. triangles

billy and his gang of misfits preserve the village of hawkins, indiana after the government swept through and voided them of basic necessities due to the labs’ shutdown. labs that festered drug cartels and bosses from other communities that dipped their hand in drug trade because what’s more profitable than doped up kids ready for their next fix?

the weapon he carries in the waistband of his pants is always cold, always heavy, but billy needs it because crime knows no boundaries, and if he’s meant to help rebuild his community on the basis of legitimacy, then he’s got to be the ruthless scoundrel that does the dirty work to keep trafficking at bay.

he can’t watch any more kids die.

in the midst of his calling, billy sleeps and wakes and dreams of a prosperous future, one that doesn’t need his legs and hands and entire fucking body as a shield against destruction, his brain a powerhouse of ambiguous morality. he finds it in the notes he writes, along the pieces of paper and napkins he manages to find, hoards them in his run down shack of an apartment when inspiration sparks.

then, mike tells him he’s got this cousin he’s picking up at the airport. this cousin who’s got rumors  _rumors_  about him. about how he’s killed a guy and might be of some use.

tommy is softer than billy imagined, but he’s knuckled-prone, skin-and-teeth. a guard dog with a whole lot of bite. of course, he becomes billy’s right hand man.

what billy eventually learns, however--with as much appreciation for tommy’s slick ways of finding information, billy’s very own informant--he does not particularly enjoy the silence that reigns over tommy’s mouth the minute steve greets them during his daily afternoon walks, when he approaches the kids in the neighborhood and promises that he’ll teach them to dance--an opportunity usually only afforded to those with money and a subtle inclination to fill the time they all have on their hands.

see, billy doesn’t put pen to paper for naught. he writes what he feels and draws metaphorical lines of want between letters because billy has known steve since before he could talk, has been in love with him for that long, too. his heart leans on a different kind of beat when steve’s around, and the only soul he’s told are the four walls that don’t necessarily keep him safe.

which means billy’s never said as much. his words are lost to graphite and the internal monologue that gnaws his brain. he fills the black hole in his chest with other worries, those more important things like keeping the village safe, like protecting the kids he wants to see live past the age of thirteen.

billy doesn’t entertain the idea of steve in his arms or in his bed because that’s too arduous, which makes the requests--the eventual one he had an inkling would come--all the more painful to hear.

steve wants tommy, and he wants him protected. the pleas that fall from his lips tell billy all he needs to know about their feelings.

so on tommy’s behalf, billy writes. billy is brains as much as he is brawn, but some people don’t carry both gifts. tommy’s words are always malicious, particularly when he turns icy eyes upon their enemies. but to be with steve means opening up a soft part of himself that comes in the form of billy’s words, pretending, masquerading as a caricature tommy wishes he could be.

billy never says a word.

he protects his village, and he pours his heart into his writing even if steve believes they belong to another man. he’s content, he thinks, and maybe a monster destined for heroic endeavors fraught with loneliness.

but not all good things last.

tommy gets shot, and he dies in billy’s arms with one last request. a letter. just one. a tangible thing for steve to hang on to. how could billy deny the request of a dying man? of a friend who believed in the dream of a village free of treachery and death?

billy delivers the letter, and he listens to the sound of steve crying.

life goes on, but billy’s not sure if steve fully recovers.

the thing about miracles is that they only happen so often and never to a boy like billy. but once in a blue moon, they get the upper hand, and it takes years and sweat and blood, but they’re close. billy can feel it.

he stays. some go, some pass, and eventually when things settle in the village, steve says he’s moving just over the hill, to the school he’s always dreamed of. to dance and come back and prove to the youngins that they can leave. that that option was fought for. for them. for all of them.

billy visits sometimes, and that’s only because steve asked. they chat, reminisce, and billy always has updates of the improvements, of the stories that come from home that are most positive. instead of another death, there’s light at the end of a tunnel they never thought they’d see.

until steve asks about regrets. what are they, and what do they mean to billy? but he’s hardheaded, grown worn by decay and minimal self-love. of protecting the place he’s always called home. so he argues, with spite. asks steve what his biggest regret is and if he’d choose to take it back, sparks malice on his tongue because steve should know the regret that lingers through billy. every scar tells those stories.

in the end, he pulls out a letter, hand slapping against billy’s chest, over his heart in a dramatic show of exasperation. he’s angery, as he should be, because billy is love-worn, but tired, thinks maybe the love he had grew nimble and thin. and yet, he opens the letter, immediately recognizing the writing as steve turns away from billy’s ugly behavior.

an ugly man with an ugly past, with death at his feet and blood under his fingernails.

billy unfolds the paper, rests it on his knee, but he doesn’t look at it again. instead, he looks out into the garden, out at the flowers and the bushes, words falling from his tongue like he’d written them just yesterday. they flow like water off his skin, remembers the night he wrote these affirmations, the day he delivered it, the tears that sealed shut any possibility of what he’d wished they could be.

at some point, his mouth goes dry, and steve’s voice is calling his name, is asking  _no one has seen this letter, billy_  and  _how do you know what it says_. that frantic anticipation lasts until billy’s done, until he blinks at steve with wet eyes, fingers curling the paper into a ball.

silence has a sound; it always did, and billy wonders why people seek it out because it’s drowning, and it’s loud, suffocating the way steve cocks his head and wonders if he’d written it. if the letter was his, if tommy was a lie, that love does not seep through paper as such unless it’s really meant.

to confirm or to deny would be another kind of death sentence, billy thinks, but the moment he looks away, steve lets out breath, a sob, and billy’s gathered in warm arms and warm lips against his temple.

for a boy like him, he knew something like this, like love, would never be possible. he’s only fortunate that steve has the compassion, has the heart to prove billy wrong.

steve loves him. mistakes and all.


	18. monster

Black. That’s the color of his veins by the end of the week, after days of itching dead skin, of covering the infection that spirals from the soft tissue of his arm. 

Billy doesn’t know what it is, has done his best to scrub away the flakey cells as if that might be a cure-all for the changes happening to his body.

It’s a slow process, but not really. Festering deep beneath blood and bone is something sickly and not quite real, not quite  _human_.

He hadn’t known for sure, thought maybe if he avoided whatever was happening to him, he’d be okay. A blind eye is easy. Forgetting is easy.

But he knows now.

It’s been several days, and his eyes leak black tears when he weeps. His breath is short like vines twisting his heart, wringing life from the core, sweltering heat upon his brow.

He knows now that this isn’t normal, and he’s not going to get better. Billy bites his tongue like his blood isn’t red from the sting of a cut, and the premonitions start slow, roll out like waves. Small inclinations like knowing pump three is out of gas on a Tuesday, and the new headline about the fire that ignites on Friday.

Or how the weather swirls like thrown ashes, hazy and suffocating from the downpour. There’s a body washed away, and Billy had known without trying.

It’s terrifying.  _He’s_  terrifying.

Which only makes it worse when the whispers start, the slithering tone of a foreign body. As if Billy’s body wasn’t already foreign, as if it wasn’t already his own.

He doesn’t speak a word, and Billy suffers in silence until the white of his skin is translucent. Until his teeth feel sharper and from it rises a cruel smile behind his mind’s eye.

Billy feels like he’s standing on the precipice of a catastrophe. He’s lived wildly, but he never believed he’d be the origin of destruction. He teeters on the brink of wilderness, caught between delusions and sanity.

Billy doesn’t want to break, but he thinks he might when the black hole sinks deeper, when his fingers twitch not of his own doing, and his newfound transgressor hums and predicts his future.

_I’m going to kill them,_ it says.  _And you’re going to help me._


End file.
